“I’ve been thinking, Miss Martha,” he said, “that Cousin Gussie must be most interested in the—­ah—­Development Company.  I really believe that he may be considering going into it himself—­ah—­ extensively, so to speak.  The more he delays replying to our letter, the more certain I am that this is the case.  You see, it is quite logical.  Dear me, yes.  If he were not interested at all he would have replied at once, any one would.  And if only a little interested, he would have replied—­say, at the end of a week.  But now he has taken almost three weeks, so—­so—­well, I think we may infer great interest, personal interest on his part.  Now, don’t you think so, Miss Martha?”

Martha shrugged.  “Accordin’ to that reasonin,” she said, “if he never answers at all it’ll be because he’s interested to death.  Well, it begins to look as if that might be it.  There, there, Mr. Bangs, I mustn’t talk that way, must I?  We won’t give up the ship as long’s the pumps work, as father used to say.”

It was the first symptom of discouragement she had shown.  The next morning Galusha crept downstairs before daylight, left a note on the dining table saying he would be back next day, and started on his long tramp to the railway station.  At noon of that day he entered the Boston office of Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot.

Disappointment met him at the threshold, so to speak.  The young, extremely young, gentleman at the desk by the door, informed him that Mr. Augustus Cabot was not in.  Pressed still further, he admitted that he would not be in that day.  No, he would not be in that week.  No, he was not in Boston.  Where was he?  Well, he had gone away and the date of his return was extremely uncertain.

Galusha, his spirits at a low ebb, stroked his chin in sad perplexity.

“Dear me!  Dear me!” he observed.  And then added: 

“Is—­is anybody in?”

Considering that the space behind the mahogany and brass railings was crowded with clerks and that from the various inner offices people were constantly coming and going, the question was peculiar.  The young guardian of the portal seemed to find it so.  He regarded Mr. Bangs with the puzzled stare of one not certain whether he has to do with a would-be joker or an imbecile.

“Say, who do you want to see?” he demanded.

“Why, Mr. Cabot—­Mr. Augustus Cabot.”

“Mr. Cabot’s away, I tell you.  He’s out of town.”

A tall, thin man of middle age, who had just emerged from one of the private offices, paused beside them.  He looked at Galusha through his eyeglasses, and then held out his hand.

“Why, Bangs!” he exclaimed.  “It is Bangs, isn’t it?  Glad to see you.  Don’t you know me?  I’m Minor.  How are you?”

Galusha remembered him, of course.  Minor had been a young assistant bookkeeper in those far-off and dismal days when he, Galusha, had worked—­or attempted to work—­in that very office.  That was—­mercy, that was a great many years ago!  Minor had changed very much.